It wasn’t safe for me to discover The Sensual World, the eponymous track on what Kate Bush described as her “most female album”. The song was intended to be a rejection of the masculine influence that had unwittingly shaped the artist’s previous work, and an ode to something taboo within the female experience. Based on Molly Bloom’s soliloquy in James Joyce’s Ulysses – a stream of consciousness in which the character reflects on her experiences of nature, sex and love – Bush wanted to celebrate the experience of life inside a woman’s body, and the ways it gives her spiritual and sexual pleasure. I knew that, for someone like me, who was already being bullied, to openly love a song like this could make me an even more obvious target to those who saw femininity as a sign of weakness. More daunting than that, it might force me to confront my own repressed desires.
By the time I was around 17, I had already spent most of my teenage years in a constant state of survival. I wasn’t yet out as a transgender woman; this was a part of me I could keep secret, unlike my effeminacy. I had a naturally high voice, which I tried and failed to deepen. “You sound like a girl,” was one of the daily taunts aimed at me by pupils at my school, even as I strained my vocal cords. My camp mannerisms and the way I walked were other noticeable crimes to the boys around me, who enjoyed mocking my “sassy” stride. Growing up in an environment such as this meant I never saw my femininity as something to embrace. That I was soft and girlish was a sign of a defective self. Still, it felt safer to be a feminine boy than a boy who wanted to become a woman.
The school I attended in Plymouth was single sex, but high-achieving girls were allowed to enter its gates at sixth form, something I was grateful for. Some of the new students lived near me, by the forests surrounding the city. One morning, while we ambled along the grassland, one of the girls shared her headphones with me and played her favourite music. That’s when the discovery was made.
For the rest of the day, I couldn’t stop thinking about Bush’s ethereal voice. On my solitary walk home, I listened to her song again under the shelter of leaves and the furry limbs of trees. I listened carefully, but most of her words appeared formless – lines sung breathlessly behind an orchestra of uilleann pipes and other traditional Irish instruments I remembered learning about in class. In certain moments, her words’ sharpness broke in again like splices of light along my trail: “to where the water and the earth caress … now I’ve powers of a woman’s body.” Moments such as these were laced throughout, often referencing nature, and culminating in postcoital bliss: “Mmh yes.” I pictured Bush dancing among trees in a state of synaesthetic ecstasy, her body lit by a neon green glow. My body swayed instinctively to the rhythm. It didn’t bother me that I must have looked like a girl doing it. I followed the flickers of emerald to the forest’s end.
Something shifted in me that day. Bush’s ode to womanhood felt like an invocation of all the things I knew I could be: euphoric, audacious and free. I started to view my femininity not as a flaw, but as an affirmation of life; a way of indulging in the intense pleasure of the world, nature and my body.
It still wasn’t safe to be my natural self in my final year of school. My transition came a couple of years later, when I moved away for university. But, from this point onwards, I knew there was a place in my mind to escape to whenever I wanted – the lush, fevered universe Bush had created – where I danced in recognition of my own sacred womanhood. And waiting patiently for that reverie to become my everyday reality, I was able to refuse the voices that told me it never would.
Did a cultural moment prompt you to make a major life change? Email us at cultural.awakening@theguardian.com
